


The Baker Street Carol

by Emily_Nicaoidh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, non-neurotypical Sherlock, obligatory festive clothing, yard christmas party
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-03 17:29:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 4,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8722591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emily_Nicaoidh/pseuds/Emily_Nicaoidh
Summary: Sherlock only has one article of festive clothing. John (and Wikipedia) insist that he wear it to the New Scotland Yard Christmas party.





	1. Wikipedia Lied to Me

**Author's Note:**

> Part 1 of the Seasonal Fucking Cheer 2016 Ficathon.  
> December 1 Prompt: You should really take off that seasonal jumper and/or hat and/or pair of shoes.

“Sherlock, what are you wearing?” John sighed, pausing as he slipped his coat onto his shoulders. 

 

“I’m wearing seasonally appropriate, festive shoes,” Sherlock said innocently. “Look, they have reindeer on them.” He pointed a toe at John to illustrate. 

 

“They’re sandals,” John replied.

 

“Mrs. Hudson said they’re festive,” Sherlock insisted. “ _ You _ said that I have to wear something festive to the Yard party and I’m wearing these.”

 

“You can’t wear those, you’ll get frostbite on your toes,” John argued. 

 

“You said I had to wear something  _ Christmassy _ .” Sherlock pronounced the adjective with disdain. “This is the only article of clothing I own that meets that unfortunate metric.”

 

“I’m not spending the Yard party dealing with your frostbitten toes,” John said. “Greg said he’s bringing whiskey and I intend to get spectacularly drunk, which I can not do if I’m worried about your damn toes.” He picked up a bottle of wine from the table by the door.

 

Sherlock glared at him. “You said I have to wear something festive.”

 

“If the options are festive and frostbite or not festive, you don’t have to wear something festive.”

 

“Fine.” Sherlock kicked off the offending reindeer sandals, then knelt to pull on his socks and usual shoes. He fumbled with the laces and felt his eyes prickle. 

 

“Almost ready?” John asked. “They’re going to start without us.”

 

“Um,” Sherlock said, choking on the word a little. 

 

“Oh, bugger,” John said, realizing what he was seeing. He walked over to Sherlock and set the wine on the floor, lowering himself stiffly to his knees so that he could look Sherlock in the face. “Hey,” he said. “It’s fine. You got it right. The reindeer shoes are perfect for a Christmas party. I’m just worried because it’s cold and icy out today.”

 

“Hum,” Sherlock mumbled, blinking wetly. “I did research. Wikipedia said the most important thing about holiday parties was to wear something festive.  _ You _ said I had to wear something festive too. It was the only festive thing I had.”

 

“Will it help if I squish you?”

 

“Maybe,” Sherlock replied. The grudging note in his voice was halfhearted at best. “But don’t we have to go to the party now? We don’t have time. You said we were going to be late.”

 

“Shush,” John said, wrapping his arms around Sherlock and shuffling a little so that Sherlock’s back was to the wall, then leaning against Sherlock until he was pressed against the wall. 

 

They stayed like that until Sherlock began to shift a little and rub uncomfortably at his knees.

 

“You good?” John asked. 

 

“Think so,” Sherlock replied. 

 

“Good,” John said, pressing a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s hair. “Because my knees hurt too.”

 


	2. Holmes Estate, 1999

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are late for the Christmas party, and Greg is impatient to give Sherlock an inappropriate gift by the time they arrive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to the Seasonal Fucking Cheer 2016 Ficathon! Today's prompt is: "Inappropriate gifts: benefits and drawbacks"

“You’re late!” Greg yelled this the instant John and Sherlock stepped into the room at NSY, causing John to wince and Sherlock to roll his eyes.

 

“Started without me, I see,” John said, clapping Greg on the shoulder and accepting a shot glass of whiskey.

 

“What kept you?” Greg asked. “And hand that back, you need another.” John handed over the shot glass as soon as he had emptied it, and Greg refilled it with the bottle that he was apparently carrying around.

 

“Freak’s here,” Donovan called from across the room.

 

“Donovan, Anderson’s cheating on you again,” Sherlock replied, matching her volume.

 

“Okay, looks like you don’t have a drink yet, Sherlock,” Greg proclaimed. “Come on, let’s go find you one!” He handed John a third shot and steered Sherlock towards the bar that had been set up on the reception desk. John followed, trailing a bit anxiously.

 

“I don’t want a drink,” Sherlock protested, but allowed himself to be lead to the bar.

 

“You don’t want a drink, you need one,” Greg insisted. “You look half frozen even with your coat on.”

 

“Yes, well, we couldn’t get a cab and ended up walking most of the way here,” Sherlock said.

 

“Since when can Sherlock Holmes not get a cab?” Greg asked, pouring a glass of pale wine. Sherlock tried to catch the words on the label, but Greg had his hand over it and he couldn’t see anything except what might have been flowers or overly-stylized grape leaves.

 

“Since apparently two saturdays before christmas is a busy weekend and there aren’t many cabs free, and I don’t want that,” Sherlock said, a note of irritation entering his voice.

 

“I think you probably do,” Greg countered. “One sip, at least. Try it.”

 

“Why?” Sherlock asked. “Planning to drug me and then play truth or dare?”

 

Greg glanced at John, who up to this point had been silent. “Wait, what?”

 

“Ok, I might have given him a bit of a sedative once and then he got really chatty,” John admitted. “I didn’t ask anything inappropriate, you volunteered the information, Sherlock!”

 

“I swear it’s not drugged.” Greg shook his head and handed the wine glass to John. “You really should try it, though.”

 

Sherlock glanced at Greg, considering. The DI was clearly hiding something, but there was pitifully little evidence to lead him to what, exactly, the man was hiding. He eyed the glass that was now in John’s hand. Unremarkable, plastic, pale yellow coloured liquid inside. He glanced back at the bar, but the bottle that Greg had poured from must have been whisked away, or finished already.

 

“If you don’t want this I’m going to drink it,” John said. “I’m not much of a wine person but it actually smells pretty good.”

 

“I’ll have a bit,” Sherlock conceded, accepting the glass and swirling it a bit. He raised it to eye level, swirled the pale, daffodil liquid gently and wafted the aroma towards his nose. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Hang on, that can’t be...”

 

Abandoning suspicion, he took a long draught. “Oh,” he breathed. “Greg, how did you get this?”

 

“Thought you’d like that,” Greg said, satisfied.

 

“What is it?” John asked.

 

Sherlock passed him the glass. “An exceptionally rare vintage of mead,” he said. “Nineteen ninety-nine. Only a few gallons were made from those hives that year, and I didn’t know any of them survived.”

 

“Survived what?” John asked. “Oh, that’s nice,” he added, finishing the mead and passing the glass back to Sherlock.

 

“An explosion in the shed where this mead was fermented destroyed most of the batch, and I thought the rest had been drunk years ago,” Sherlock mused. “How did you get this?”

 

Greg smiled. “You’re almost there, come on, you can work it out.”

 

“Humph. Bit inappropriate for the season,” Sherlock said. “This is a floral mead, better for summer. There’s only one person who could have gotten ahold of this vintage and had the self control not to drink it for so many years…” He trailed off and focused on Greg.

 

“A person whom I happen to be dating, officially now,” Greg said, grinning. “Side benefit of that, I find out all kinds of delightful things about a certain chemist’s past.”

 

“Well. I would congratulate you, but...” Sherlock looked pointedly at his empty glass. “Where is my mead?”

 

“It’s all yours,” Greg said, producing the bottle (hidden in his coat! Sherlock could have kicked himself for not noticing) and handing it over. “Merry Christmas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading <3


	3. The dangers of secret santa; or at least we got the mead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seasonal Fucking Cheer Ficathon day 3: " Love, Actually: That porn stunt double does not look like me AT ALL what are you on about"
> 
> John and Sherlock get pulled into the secret santa drama at the NSY Christmas party.

“Seeing some of these gifts, I am beyond glad we didn’t agree to be part of the Yard’s secret santa exchange,” John muttered to Sherlock. “This is painful to watch.”

 

Sherlock agreed. The gifts had started out silly, and quickly traversed the line from “a bit rude” to “in poor taste”, landing at “downright mean”. The two of them had claimed seats as far away from the main group as possible when the gift-giving had started, and were watching the proceedings with dwindling amusement.

 

“We got the mead, though, so it was worth coming here,” he pointed out.

 

“Definitely,” John said. “This is amazing. I can’t believe you made this when you were 19.”

 

“It was an old family recipe, came with the hives. I just followed it, and I was halfway through a chemistry degree by then anyway,” Sherlock said.

 

“Sherlock! Holmes, m’boy!” Greg shouted. “We got you a present!” He waved a smallish square box, wrapped in garish red and green paper.

 

“I’m not doing your drunken secret santa,” Sherlock said. “I don’t want it.”

 

Several officers snickered.

 

“I think you will once you see what it is,” Donovan sang. “It’s sort of a present for John too, really...”

 

“I don’t want it,” Sherlock said flatly.

 

“Sherlock, will you just be normal for five minutes and open it, you’ll like it, I promise.” Greg pushed the package at Sherlock, who took it reluctantly.

 

“You don’t have to open that,” John said quietly, leaning closer to his ear. “We can leave right now if you want. Just leave it on the chair and we’ll go.”

 

“He’s right, I should try to be normal for five minutes and do this,“ Sherlock said. “How bad can it be?”

 

That, as it turned out, was a question he should have thought more about before proceeding to unwrap the box.

 

The first warning was the garish, red velvet curtains that he saw on the corner of the...whatever it was as he peeled the paper of of a corner.

 

The second warning was the thin fold with a staple in the middle along the first edge that he revealed as he tore off a strip of paper.

 

“Good, innit?” Greg asked as Sherlock tore off the final bits of paper and tape.

 

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock said.

 

“Read the cover,” Donovan urged.

 

“ _Men of the British Armed Forces Calendar 2002,”_ Sherlock read. “I don’t want this.”

 

“I’m pretty sure you will once you look at Mr. August,” Donovan snickered. “Or should I say, _Captain_ August.”

 

“Come on, we all know you have a bit of a...thing for men in uniform,” Greg laughed. “But look at the August one. You have to.”

 

Sherlock glanced at John, who shrugged. He crumpled the wrapping paper into a ball and dropped it on the floor, then flipped to August.

 

“John?”

 

“What?” John asked.

 

“When did you..?” Sherlock held the calender out at John.

 

“Oh my God,” John said, starting at the calendar. ”That’s uh..that’s not me?”

 

“We know,” Gred chimed in. “But you have to admit, that Captain August does look a lot like you.”

 

Sherlock held the offending calendar out to Donovan, pinching only the corner of it between two fingers. “I don’t want this,” he repeated.

 

“You know what? We’re leaving,” John said, snatching the calendar away and tossing it at Greg. “This is not funny and we have better things to be doing.”

 

“Like _each other,_ ” Donovan snickered.

 

Sherlock glared at her, then spun on his heel and followed John out the door.

 

They walked a few blocks in silence.

 

“I’m glad we went,” Sherlock said eventually.

 

“Really? Why?” John asked.

 

“I’ve got the other two bottles of that mead in my coat pockets,” Sherlock grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is written as an homage to Xistentialangst's amazing fic "The Detective and the Pin-Up" which you should all go read asap because it's so, so great.


	4. Look Sherlock! There Really Is a Santa Claus!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock arrive home after misadventures at the NSY Christmas Party, and someone has left them a gift.

One drunk doctor and one drunk detective someone saw each other safely home, and when the door of 221B was shut behind them, Sherlock leaned against it for support as he kicked off his shoes and dropped his scarf on the carpet.

 

John was more interested in what had appeared underneath their Christmas tree while they were out.

 

“Look at that, Sherlock!” John exclaimed happily, pointing at the silver-wrapped gift nestled underneath their previously-empty Christmas tree. “There really is a Santa Claus, and he brought you...whatever that is. Excuse me.” With this, John hurried to the bathroom, probably to throw up, Sherlock reasoned. 

 

A few moments after the bathroom door slammed, aural observation confirmed his deductions. 

 

“It’s probably from Mrs. Hudson,” he called. “No matter how drunk you are, Santa still isn’t real.” 

 

However stern Sherlock may have intended to sound, he was still curious, and he peered over at the paper. The night thus far had a fifty-fifty track record for gifts being excellent (mead he had brewed as an undergraduate and thought lost) or utterly horrifying (a sexy soldier porn calendar with a Captain August who looked disturbingly like John) and embarrassing.

 

There was a tag on the gift, but a pom-pom in a particularly ugly shade of fluorescent green blocked the writing on it. Sherlock pulled off the pom-pom and read the tag. 

 

_ I’d rather this be kept out of the papers,  _ the tag read in an annoyingly familiar hand.  _ Consider it your Christmas gift to me. Happy Christmas, Sherlock. --MH _

 

“It’s from Mycroft,” Sherlock yelled. 

 

John emerged from the bathroom holding his head and looking somewhat improved. “Yeah, that makes sense. What is it, then?”

 

“Looks like a case he wants us to solve for him,” Sherlock replied, tearing the paper off in one go and throwing it on the ground. “We’ve got an appointment with a dead biochemist at St. Bart’s. Let’s go.”

 

“Wait, just like that? You’re actually going to take a case for Mycroft without complaining?” 

 

“He said it would be my Christmas gift to him,” Sherlock said. “If I do this, he owes me one for a change! Oh, this is going to be good. Besides, admit it, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be tonight than the morgue.”

 

Sherlock, occupied with re-tying his scarf and slipping his feet back into his shoes, did not hear John muttering.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. glowing mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does Molly know Sherlock is using the Bart's pathology lab at 4 am? Probably not!

“Hmm. Kissing under a parasitic plant is a terrible idea,” Sherlock muttered, turning the dial on the microscopy a hair. 

 

“What?” John raised his head from the slate lab bench, where he had been attempting to nap. 

 

“Mistletoe, John!” Sherlock said happily. “There are traces of it in the victim’s hair!”

 

“So?” John yawned. “It’s December. Mistletoe is everywhere. That can’t possibly help us narrow down where the murder happened.”

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Sherlock replied. “We know from Lestrade that they found the body on the steps to NSY, but that there wasn’t enough blood on the scene for him to have been killed there or evidence that a mess had been made and then cleaned up. So we know he was killed somewhere else and then brought there...” His eyes shone with unholy glee. “I ran a PCM on some DNA I isolated out of the plant matter in his hair a few hours ago while you were asleep on a hunch and it looks like I was right!”

 

“About...”

 

“It’s transgenic mistletoe!” Sherlock said. “There is only one biochemist in the world that makes this particular strain and luckily for us (and unluckily for our Mr. Doe here) she is a professor at the Imperial College. I’m a big fan of her work, she adds green fluorescent protein to the section of DNA that expresses the berry coating, and...” He jumped up from the lab stool and hurried to the door, flicking the lights off. 

 

“Look!” Sherlock waved at the microscope. 

 

John dragged himself to his feet and leaned over the microscope. “It’s glowing.” 

 

“Yup!” Sherlock clapped his hands. “Which confirms that the mistletoe in the victim’s hair could only have come from Dr. Yildiz’ greenhouse. It’s the only place in the country her strain of fluorescent mistletoe is grown, and very strictly controlled so that it doesn’t cross-breed with the wild variety.”

 

“Ok, so...we’ll go to the greenhouse in the morning, talk to Dr. Yildiz?” John yawned again. “I’m four am. There isn’t going to be anybody there now,” he added.

 

“We need to--” Sherlock paused and looked over at John. His eyes were red and he looked like he was barely awake. “Go home and sleep,” he finished. “You’ll be no use burgling in that state.”

 

“Feckin finally,” John mumbled. “Come on, Sherlock,” he said, slinging an arm around the detective’s waist. “Let’s go home.”


	6. Spoiler Alert: the heater is broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good thing there's a cab to get our still slightly drunk and very sleepy duo back to Baker Street from St. Bart's!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to day 6 of Seasonal Fucking Cheer: "What? The heat's not working?"

Sherlock did not remember flagging down a cab, but he supposed that he must have, because John had a notoriously poor track record being able to get cabs to stop for him. He let his head drop to John’s shoulder and closed his eyes, just for a minute. 

 

“Oi! You two!” Sherlock awoke to the cab driver banging on the side of the door. He stumbled out of the cab and towards 221B, hoping that John would pay. 

 

“John! I don’t have a key,” Sherlock called, fumbling at his pockets. 

 

“In a mo’,” John yelled back.

 

Sherlock’s memories of the rest of the night (early morning, really) were extremely hazy. He didn’t remember John unlocking the door, or guiding him up the stairs, or steering him towards the bed, or gently lowering his head onto his pillow and pulling off his shoes before covering him with the duvet. 

 

Sherlock remembered none of that. 

 

He did, however, remember waking up approximately three hours later at the unholy hour of eight am with blue toes and lips and shivering cold. 

 

“J-John,” he stuttered. “John, cold.”

 

In response, John groaned and rolled closer to him, slinging a heavy arm across Sherlock’s back. “S’okay,” he mumbled. “It’s fine. S’all fine.”

 

“N-no it isn’t,” Sherlock grumbled. “Wake up!” He shook John’s shoulder halfheartedly. 

 

“What isn’t?” John asked. 

 

Sherlock studied his face for a moment. “You were asleep! You were talking when you were asleep! You talk in your sleep!”

 

“And now I’m not,” John pointed out.

 

“It’s cold, John,” Sherlock said. He shuffled down and buried his face in John’s chest hair. “Mmf. You’re warm.”

 

“Do you think the heater’s broken?” John asked. 

 

“Obviously,” Sherlock sniffed. He pulled the duvet completely over his head. “I’m staying in here where it’s warm.”

 

“I’ll call someone in the morning,” John agreed. 

 

“It’s already the morning,” Sherlock mumbled. 

 

“The other morning, then,” John said. “‘M going back to sleep.”

 

“But I can stay like this right?” Sherlock rubbed his cheek against John’s chest. “It’s fluffy.”

 

John snored.


	7. a spot of festive housebreaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock do some (green)housebreaking to look for evidence.  
> Seasonal Fucking Cheer 2016 Ficathon Day 7: "There is an overabundance of seasonally appropriate decor in this flat"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still reading, thanks! I got off track last week, and I'm hoping to catch up this week/end.

“Think they’ve got enough decorations?” John asked, glancing around the greenhouse. “I think they’ve covered just about every single seasonally-appropriate greeting.”

 

Sherlock hummed in reply, not paying attention to the swaths of multicoloured lights and signs that covered every non-glass surface in the greenhouse, proclaiming MERRY CHRISTMAS and HAPPY HANNUKAH and JOYOUS KWANZAA and EID MUBARAK, all in large, sparkling letters.

 

“Still think we could have come during the day, when this place was open, rather than breaking in though,” John added.

 

“This place is never open,” Sherlock said. “Look around. There are unique strains of at least ten different poisonous plants in here, all designed in-house. Security on this greenhouse is tight.”

 

“You picked the lock in about three minutes,” John said.

 

“Thank you for noticing,” Sherlock said. “We had to break in because I don’t think she’d let us actually look at the mistletoe, especially if she’s the killer. I want to get a good look at exactly where it’s grown, see if there’s anywhere a killer could have hidden nearby, and maybe get some more samples if there are fallen leaves or any bits I could take without anyone noticing.”

 

“Nice of them to label everything so clearly,” John noted.

 

“Not all doctors have messy handwriting,” Sherlock scoffed.

 

“You’re one to talk!”

 

Sherlock drifted away, reading the labels on pots and shelves, and peeking around corners before checking the next row of plants. He worked his way gradually to the back to the greenhouse, ducked underneath a banner with the word YULE written in green glitter over a hand drawn mug of beer, and breathed a soft ‘aha.’

 

“John! I found it!” He called.

 

There was no answer but the sound of a door creaking open.

 

“John?”

 

Sherlock heard footsteps approaching, but they were much too light to be John’s, and besides, their owner was clearly wearing heels.

 

“Sherlock Holmes. Care to explain why you’re trespassing in my greenhouse?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you in chapter 8!


	8. Sure Thing, Krampus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock attempts to question Dr. Yildiz. It doesn't go well (for him)  
> Seasonal Fucking Cheer 2016 Ficathon Day 8: "The Grinch, Scrooge, and Other Holiday Enemies You Might Currently Be Acting Like"

“Dr. Yildiz?” Sherlock asked.

 

“Great, we’ve made introductions,” She rolled her eyes. “Now explain.”

 

“Uh...someone was murdered in this greenhouse a few days ago. I’m trying to find out why.”

 

“So you broke in.”

 

“Well….” Sherlock glanced at the mistletoe. At this point, his chances of sneaking a sample were probably nil; Dr. Yildiz seemed to be (unfortunately for him) very observant.

 

She sighed. “Come on, let’s go back to my office and talk about this. I won’t call security...yet.” She turned to leave and waved at the pair of them to follow. 

 

“What if she’s the killer, and trying to lure us out where she can kill us?” John whispered. “Also, how does she know you?”

 

“I doubt it. She doesn’t act like she’s hiding anything, and anyway there’s still two of us and one of her. It’s probably fine.” Sherlock considered. “I don’t know how she knows me. Mycroft, maybe?”

 

\--

 

“Nope. Not telling you that.”

 

“How am I supposed to find the killer without the names of all your students?” Sherlock asked, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

 

“By investigating people who might actually be guilty, for one. My students aren’t.”

 

“The names. Now, please.”

 

“Sure thing, Krampus.“

 

“What?”

 

“I’m not giving you their names, and if you somehow find them another way I will tell security to ban you from this campus.”

 

“Okay, Sherlock, we’re leaving,” John said, clapping a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and turning him towards the door. “Really sorry about all this,” he added.

 

“Look, I get that you want to solve this murder, but going after my students isn’t the way to do it,” Dr. Yildiz said, shaking the hand that John offered. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm turning into a huge fan of Dr. Yildiz. She's vaguely based on a sister-in-law of mine (i have 7) who, while not a biochemist, is smart and takes no shit from anyone.


	9. Fruitcake and bee pins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes out on an errand, leaving Sherlock just enough time for a secret task. Or so he thinks...  
> Seasonal Fucking Cheer 2016 Ficathon Day 9: "Fruitcake and other things that separate us."

“I’m going out to the clinic to pick up some charts I need to fill out this weekend,” John said, tucking his keys into his pocket. He glanced over at Sherlock, who was curled up on the sofa in his dressing gown and pajamas.

 

Sherlock tapped his phone screen and didn’t look up.

 

“Ok, good chat. See you later,” John called, closing the door.

 

Once John was safely outside of the apartment, Sherlock stuffed his phone into his dressing down pocket and vaulted over the side of the sofa. He hurried to the kitchen and started pulling bags and jars off of the shelves. He checked the time on his phone--if it took John an average of thirty minutes to walk to the clinic...yes, there should be time. He switched on the oven, then turned to the ingredients arranged haphazardly around a mixing bowl.

 

Sherlock fished in the pocket of his dressing gown, and when he fingers found the little bee clips, he stuck them in his hair, pinning the longest curls away from his face, and set to work.

 

Most ingredients he didn’t measure. He had a bloodhound’s nose and a chemist’s intuition, and the pair of those senses had never let him down in the kitchen. Spices were added in pinches, each followed by a waft and a sniff of the mixture’s current aroma, then another pinch of two of spices to adjust...he stirred and melted and whisked and fluffed, and his fingertips began to be stained with cinnamon, clove, and nutmeg.

  
  


“Sherlock?” At the sound of John’s voice, Sherlock dropped the bag of golden raisins he was holding and whirled around.   
  
‘What’s all this then?“ John asked, sniffing the air. “You’re baking? Since when do you bake?”

 

 Sherlock rolled his eyes and tried to brush a stray hair from his face, succeeding only in smearing a swipe of floury dough across his temple. This did not add dignity to the situation.

 

“I like christmas cake,” Sherlock said. He didn’t intend to sound petulant but once the words were out, he realized that he definitely did.

 

“Can I help?” John asked, drifting over to the counter. “Ooh. You have glace cherries?” He snatched one from the bowl and ate it.

 

“That isn’t helping,” Sherlock commented.

 

“Is this?” John asked, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s (also floury) waist and drawing him in for a hug.

 

“Um. No. But it’s not not-helping?” Sherlock replied. He leaned over to the counter and added the last of the cherries and raisins, then craned his neck back to look at John. “I need to put this in the oven.”

 

“Okay.” John shuffled along behind him, laughing with a slight “oohf” when Sherlock bent to open the oven door and bumped into him with his hips, sending the pair of them backwards a few steps.

 

“You could help me wait for it to bake,” Sherlock suggested.

 

“Oh, where should we do that?” John asked, teasing.

 

“Bedroom.” Sherlock’s voice was completely serious, and John ruffled his (floury, and now sticky) hair fondly.

 

“I love these, by the way,” he said, touching one of the bee pins. “They’re absolutely adorable.”

 

“Don’t tell anyone,” Sherlock grumbled.

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading <3


	10. Sherlock's least favourite holiday song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter really is a ficlet, it's tiny, but also plotty(ish).

“This is the worst song of all time,” Sherlock muttered, but obligingly raised his bow and launched into a grudging rendition of “The Little Drummer Boy.” He dragged through the bits that were supposed to be staccato and elided the faster notes together, but even so Mrs. Hudson’s eyes were sparkling with delight at the end.    
  


“Oh, lovely, dear,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. “Thank you.” 

 

“None of us have had enough cake yet,” Sherlock said, cutting another piece. “John?” 

 

“Yeah, why not?” John said, passing his plate over. “I’ll probably be spending the rest of the week chasing the mistletoe murderer around alleys. I’ll work it off then.”

 

“Mistletoe murderer? Is that one of Lestrade’s cases then?” Mrs. Hudson asked. 

 

“It’s the frankly inane name John gave to the case we’re working on for Mycroft,” Sherlock said. “It’s dull. There are alternately too few or far too many people with motive, depending on which way I look at it, and that horrible woman won’t let me interview half of them!” He stabbed at his slice of cake with his fork.

 

“If you don’t like the names I give cases, don’t get into my blog drafts,” John said mildly. “Besides, it fits.”

  
“I guess we could start with the other end of the list,” Sherlock mused. “How do you feel about sneaking into a funeral tomorrow?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! <3 See you tomorrow, I hope!


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